


Be Sure To Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair

by blamefincham



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham/pseuds/blamefincham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Though Nick tries to watch out for it, Harry keeps the camera business up all day; he takes as many pictures of Nick as he does of things that really deserve to be photographed, like the gorgeous view of the bay or the really weird mime they run into at the wharf. When they’re walking near the water, looking for a good place to sit and have a picnic with the food they bought, Nick finally asks him why, and Harry doesn’t hesitate before answering this time. “Well, it’s like—everybody takes pictures of buildings and views and stuff and that sort of thing is cool, but it’s not really about the building, it’s about the memories you associate with it? And for me, a lot of those memories have to do with the person or people along with me. So when I’m all old and stuff and I’ve forgotten my own name, I don’t just wanna remember that I saw the Golden Gate Bridge in 1977, I wanna remember that I saw it with you.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>1970s San Francisco AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Sure To Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Oof, this has been a beast! I've tried to stay as true as possible to historical events, period accuracy, etc etc. There are tons of slurs and a lot of internalized homophobia--the narration is third-person but Nick's point of view, so keep that in mind please!
> 
> Many, many thank yous to Melia, Kelly, and Hadley, who have read most of this in their inboxes and kept me writing through copious use of swearwords. 
> 
> The standard disclaimer applies: I am not nor am I associated with 1D, Nick Grimshaw, or anyone else mentioned in this fic. If you are Nick Grimshaw, back the fuck up and stay there.

The minute that he sees the curly-haired bit of jailbait heading for his booth, Nick sighs, because he knows that he's going to have to yell at Collette later, _again_. She's a sucker for a sob story and she always has been; this kid is not the first one she's sent to find him and he knows that no matter what he says to her, he won't be the last. Nick doesn't know why _he's_ always the one she does this to—Henry and David are practically married, shouldn't they be the ones adopting little gaybies?

But somehow they get out of it, every time, so instead it's Nick who gets stuck with some dumb kid sleeping on his couch (and eventually in his bed, every time), and he's not sure whether Collette is trying to send the kids to someone she knows isn't a total dick or if she thinks she's sending him a present. And so what if she sort of is? That's not the point. The point is, Nick can score perfectly well without having boys delivered to his doorstep and then feeling guilty if he turns them away.

Then again, maybe Collette is really just counting on his lapsed-Catholic guilt to abate her own over not letting these kids stay with her. Hmm. Nick ought to look into that.

At a later date, though. Right now, this kid is introducing himself, and though Nick can't really hear him over the music, he nods and smiles anyway. The kid offers him a handshake, which Nick's pleased about; the last one had tried to go in for a kiss right away and Nick had very nearly sent him packing then and there. Nick is also pleased about the handshake because this kid's got massive hands, big enough to rival his own, and okay, so maybe Nick fades the music down a little bit and switches into a slower track that's better for talking over, but nobody could ever prove that's related to his observation about the kid's hands.

The kid flashes him a smile (which is how Nick notices that he's got fucking dimples, because of course he does, _Christ_ ) and launches into a story. “Um, yeah, so, I kind've came here a bit spur of the moment, like, and this kid I go to school with—well used to go to school with, I should say, 'cause he graduated last year,” and Nick's already lost the thread of this conversation because it doesn't seem to be going anywhere. He doesn't much mind for once, though; the kid's voice is low and slow and a bit rough, and he likes those superficial qualities enough to not care about the substance of what he's saying.

Come to think of it, that might just be a metaphor for all of the problems Nick's having in his life at the moment. He shoves that thought away for later, because he can tell by the kid's rising inflection that the story's coming to a rambling end. “—and she said to come and find you and maybe you'd have a couch I could crash on or something?”

Nick cocks his head and squints at the kid slightly. Whichever answer he gives, he needs to give the impression that he's thinking about it. On one hand, he swore up and down that after last time when the kid stole fifty bucks from him and hopped a bus to LA to start a modeling career without so much as a thank you, he was never, ever going to do this again. On the other hand, this kid is biting his lip and looks both nervous and a bit wired under Nick's gaze, and Nick is interested despite himself.

He shouldn't be any different from any of the hundreds of guys like him that Nick's seen come to Frisco for some adventure—a little twink fresh off a farm, probably here for a summer of fun until his pocket money runs out and he scurries back home with his tail between his legs to trap himself into an unhappy marriage with a girl he doesn't (can't) love. He probably _isn't_ any different, really. But there's something about the way he's unabashedly wearing a crucifix necklace in a gay club, some hint of substance beneath the wide-eyed innocent expression, some undefinable quality about him that makes Nick want to take him apart just to see what makes him tick.

And if nothing else, the kid's got a mouth that's _made_ for sucking cock, which means that there's at least something in this for Nick.

Nick sighs, holds up a hand, and turns to the decks to do his job for a moment. When he looks back at the kid, he's shaking out his fringe, then pushing it back into place so that it looks exactly the same as it did before. Nick feels an inexplicable rush of fondness for him and smiles because he can't help it. “What'd you say your name was again?”

The kid looks hopeful and cheeky at the same time, which is an oddly pleasant mixture of emotions in an expression, and it goes straight to Nick's dick. If it were up to him, all the little twinks wandering around Frisco in the summer would look hopeful and cheeky at the same time, but he seriously doubts most of them could pull it off this well. “M'Harry,” the kid—Harry—says, a bit cautious but something about his eyes says he knows he's already won.

Casually, Nick tosses an arm around Harry's shoulders, and Harry hesitates for half a second before melting into his side. “Well, Harry, I'll be out of here in about half an hour and I've got a sofa with your name on it. Consider it my good deed for the year, I guess.” Harry's only a few inches shorter than Nick, but it's enough that when he grins in response, he has to look up at him. Nick likes him already.

* * *

The walk back to Nick's apartment is only a few blocks, which is a large part of why he took this job in the first place. Just because the public transportation in San Francisco is pretty good doesn't mean he wants the cost of using it to eat into his paychecks all the time, especially considering that Drunk Nick has an unfortunate tendency to turn into the most generous man on the planet. Hangovers for him are often accompanied by an empty wallet, so it's better if he doesn't waste his money when sober so that he's got some to hide away from his drunk self for a rainy day.

He keeps pretty close to Harry as they walk, letting him do the talking, because Nick's busy paying attention to their surroundings. He usually hangs around the club for a couple of hours after close, flirting aimlessly with the bartenders and “helping” tidy up (read: getting in Aimee's way until she starts threatening to throw a glass at his head), just to let all of the drunks from the bars get home, but Harry looked dead on his feet by the end of Nick's set, so he decided to chance it and head out right away. He's not sure now if that was a good choice or not; as Harry rambles on in his slow, scratchy voice about the plane ride here and how he'd cashed in his life savings to pay for it, Nick keeps one hand on the whistle in his pocket. He's used to its presence, slipped into his jeans pocket every morning out of habit after the time RJ's saved both of their lives, but tonight the metal feels like it's burning and every group of men stumbling down the street seems like some homophobes with a point to prove.

Harry doesn't seem to notice his paranoia, though, or at least he doesn't let it affect his storytelling. In between looking over his shoulder, Nick pieces together a first proper impression of the kid. Nick's never heard of the city he's from and when he asks Harry to elaborate, he chuckles and says, “A bit west of the cornfields and a bit north of the cows, so nowhere, basically,” which is enough for Nick to know that he wasn't out at home and is enjoying the ability to walk down the sidewalk at two in the morning with another man. Harry talks about a sister and a mother and Nick can tell from the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes that he feels guilty about running away but couldn't hide any longer, and that Harry probably came out by leaving them a letter in his empty bed and no forwarding address. None of it's new to Nick—after a childhood in Manhattan and eight years in San Francisco, nothing is—but even outside of the flashing lights and haze of the club, there remains something intriguing about Harry, and Nick still wants to put his finger on it.

When they're safe in his apartment with the door locked behind them, Nick lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and feels immediately exhausted. That level of vigilance isn't something he's used to, as much as it probably should be, and it takes work to pay that much attention for that long. Before he can even complain about it, though, Harry's crowding his space, pressing his lips insistently to Nick's and grabbing at his lapels, and _okay_.

Harry's technique is practiced enough that Nick can tell that even though he might have been in the closet at home, he definitely wasn't celibate. Nobody learns how to do that with their tongue except through experience, which makes Nick pleasantly surprised. He's had enough awkward, teeth-knocking kisses to last a lifetime, thanks. Really, Nick is pleasantly surprised by this whole turn of events. He generally has to put at least some effort into seducing these boys, but he definitely won't complain if Harry wants to do this now. As Nick cups Harry's face with both of his hands, though, he feels Harry's heartbeat, rabbit-quick under his fingertips, and then he notices that Harry's hands, which have started tugging at the fly of his jeans, are shaking.

The realization clicks into place in Nick's brain like the last piece of a puzzle, and suddenly everything makes sense. He stops kissing back and pulls away half a step—still close enough to talk quietly, to keep his hands on Harry's face, but far enough that Harry's hands are knocked off the waistband of his jeans, which makes Harry open his eyes and look up at him, confused. Nick smirks at him, but it's gentle. “Harry, you don't have to fuck me to sleep on my sofa,” he says, landing neatly between admonishing and fond.

Nick can feel Harry's relief under the hands he still has on his face; the kid actually, physically sags with it. “I don't?” he asks, and it's apparent as soon as the words have left his mouth that he knows it's a dumb question. He doesn't say anything to amend it, though, just chews on his bottom lip. Nick curses his own morals; surely whatever it is that won't let him take advantage of young, nubile boys can't be good for him.

“What d'you think I'm running here, a brothel?” Nick jokes. He lets his hands drop from Harry's face and sets one arm around his shoulder again, which is somehow already a comfortable amount of intimacy. “I promise you, this place is too small for an orgy of any kind, and anyway that couch isn't comfortable enough to be worth a blowjob.”

If Harry's embarrassed by the situation or by Nick's language, he doesn't show it, which is charming. He just grins and says, “Then maybe I should wait to thank you until tomorrow morning.” All his cheek from earlier is back, but it's even more endearing now that Nick's got a glimpse of how some of it's just bravado. Nick firmly refuses to let himself run the numbers in his head of how many nights it'll be before Harry relocates to his bed.

* * *

Nick wakes up to the smell of coffee and bacon, which is odd because not only is he not the one making them, but he's fairly certain that he didn't have either of those things last night when he went to sleep. As he rubs his eyes and climbs out of bed, he wonders if he's being reverse-burgled or something. It seems like something that could happen in his life, particularly if one of his friends wants him to do them a favor.

He's out his bedroom door by the time he remembers Harry. Which, while it explains who's probably doing the cooking, doesn't exactly cover how or why he's magicked breakfast food out of thin air. Nick follows his nose to the kitchen, then stands in the doorway for a minute, watching Harry cook. He considers scaring him with a shout or a poke or something, but then realizes that that would likely end in breakfast being ruined. Though he's sure Harry's reaction would be funny, he's also sure it wouldn't be worth that, so he settles for a polite cough instead.

Harry still jumps, which makes his stupid curly hair actually _bounce_ , but the bacon stays in the pan where it belongs. Nick considers it a success and inwardly praises his own decision-making skills, then offers Harry an easy smile when he turns around. “Did you bring that bacon with you in your backpack? 'Cause if you did, I'm not sure if I want to eat it, to be honest.”

He laughs and shakes his head, and those damn dimples make another appearance. Nick is a bit concerned that he's already swearing at Harry's body parts, perhaps he ought to slow things down a little, but he thinks he might have forgotten how. “Nah, I ran down to the store on the corner, so you're good. Umm, the lady from the store—she asked if I was new around here and I said yes and she said d'you know anyone and I said I was staying with you and she said to tell you hello, I think her name might've been some kind of fruit? Plum? Pear?”

“Peaches,” Nick corrects, as evenly as possible. He's really quite proud of this new self-control thing he's developing, because he sort of wants to bang his face against the wall—if Peaches saw Harry buying breakfast food for the two of them, then she's going to come to entirely the wrong conclusion (well, it's wrong for now, anyway), and she's going to tell Pixie, who's going to tell everyone that Collette hasn't told already. Which is always how this goes, Nick's friend circle is tight-knit and full of impossible gossips and he loves them all to pieces, and normally he'd like nothing better than to show off his latest boy toy to the lot of them, but he sort of wants to keep Harry all to himself, at least for now.

Nick tells himself he doesn't want to let his friends get their claws into Harry until he's got him figured out a bit better. Now that he's not under the influence of alcohol and exhaustion, he's started following Harry's rambling style of speech a bit more closely, and it—like everything else about Harry, apparently—is hopelessly charming. What Nick wants to figure out is how much of Harry's personal charm is an affectation, a kid using his looks and his situation to his advantage to make sure you think he's innocent and sweet, and how much of it is him actually being a bit odd in the most compelling way.

He puts the psychoanalysis out of his mind until he's had some breakfast. Harry's made bacon and pancakes (no eggs, which is good because Nick hates them), and there's coffee and fruit and even blueberry muffins. Nick doesn't think he told Harry about all of his favorite breakfast foods last night, which means that either Harry is psychic or he asked Peaches, and Nick would try harder to decide which option was worse if he could make himself be bothered by either one. Mostly, he's just thrilled; this is the first proper breakfast he's had in ages, since he left home probably, but when Nick tries to thank Harry, he just shrugs and says “You're letting me stay on your couch, least I can do really is cook a bit.” But he's smiling anyway, and Nick's completely torn about whether he's practiced that face in the mirror or if he just looks that coy by nature.

After they finish breakfast, Nick sips at his coffee and lets Harry do the dishes while he takes the opportunity to size him up a bit. Nick's job as a DJ pays well enough that that's all he has to do (because Annie is a saint who knows how to run a business), so he's got his days free. In the past, boys have either asked to be taken to a bath house straight away to get on with their sexual awakening, or for him to show them _his_ favourite place in the city, which means they want to have their sexual awakening with him, and they'll fancy themselves in love with him until they wake up one day and realize he's on the wrong side of twenty-five and more than a bit neurotic and in a city like this they can probably do better. Nick's sort of hoping that's not Harry, because he'd hate to be walked out on by an ass so flat he can't even make the “hate to see you leave, love to watch you go” joke, but he can't really see him asking to go right to a bath house either.

Rather than sit around speculating any longer like the neurotic freak he definitely isn't at all, Nick stands up to put his coffee cup in the sink and leans his hip against the counter. He manfully resists the urge to snap Harry with the dishtowel; that can wait until they know each other a little better. “So, young Harold, I've got nothing to do today and you're the one who's new to the city, what do you want to do?”

Harry turns off the faucet and actually takes the time to consider the question, chewing on the skin of his thumb a bit and staring off into space. He takes long enough that Nick almost starts to repeat himself, but then he looks up at Nick and says, “Can we go see the Golden Gate? And, uh, ride one of them—cable cars, you know, like you see in movies and stuff? I've always wanted to ride one of those.”

Once again, despite Nick's very best efforts at building up a resistance, Harry's left him completely charmed. It's bordering on enamored at this point, which makes Nick want to throw up his breakfast (which had, of course, been excellent). Harry is entirely unashamed to want to do touristy things; he's an open book and Nick can't read any shame in his expression, just pure excitement. That excitement is enough to make Nick actually _want_ to do the stupid tourist stuff just to see Harry enjoying it, even riding those rickety cable cars that Nick's sure are due to kill somebody any day now. Nick's answering smile is far more sincere than his usual; he doesn't need to check his reflection to know that the corner of his mouth he's twisted up isn't doing nearly enough to turn it into a smirk that might make Harry think he was making fun of him. Damn it. “Course we can. I'll take you down to Pier 39 as well, see if we can't run into a magician to pull a coin from behind your ear or something.”

The fare on the cable cars is fifty cents for a day pass, and Nick pays for them both before Harry can even get his wallet out. It's worth it for the grumpy face Harry makes when he accepts his ticket, all pouting with a line between his eyebrows. Nick reaches out and smooths the wrinkle with the pad of his thumb. “Careful, there. You'll get wrinkles and then be entirely unfuckable in this town, and don't you dare comment on mine, it isn't polite.” Harry looks torn between confusion and amusement, which is exactly what Nick was going for, so he gives Harry the window seat as an unspoken reward for having the proper reaction to Nick's antics. Also because he's the new kid, even though this is also Nick's first time riding a cable car (he's been too cool to even consider it thus far).

Harry's got his camera with him, like a proper tourist, and Nick's looking off into the distance and considering buying him an “I ♥ SF” shirt and bullying him into wearing it around everywhere when he's surprised by a flash. Harry grins over the top of the camera at him, and when Nick glares at him for being caught off guard and therefore unable to pose, Harry just laughs and takes another picture that Nick's not quick enough to block.

Though Nick tries to watch out for it, Harry keeps the camera business up all day; he takes as many pictures of Nick as he does of things that really deserve to be photographed, like the gorgeous view of the bay or the really weird mime they run into at the wharf. When they're walking near the water, looking for a good place to sit and have a picnic with the food they bought, Nick finally asks him why, and Harry doesn't hesitate before answering this time. “Well, it's like—everybody takes pictures of buildings and views and stuff and that sort of thing is cool, but it's not really about the building, it's about the memories you associate with it? And for me, a lot of those memories have to do with the person or people along with me. So when I'm all old and stuff and I've forgotten my own name, I don't just wanna remember that I saw the Golden Gate Bridge in 1977, I wanna remember that I saw it with you.”

It's so honest that it makes Nick stare for several seconds. He'd been betting himself that most of Harry's adorable little quirks were manufactured, but it's clear as day that he's not putting on any sort of act at the moment. Harry looks slightly worried, standing there pigeon-toed (who is _actually_ pigeon-toed, Nick wants to know) and rubbing his thumb over the corner of his camera, and though it's all very adorable, Nick has to break the moment for his own sanity with a laugh and a shake of his head. “Good answer,” he says a bit weakly, then feels a rush of gratitude towards the universe when he finally spots an unoccupied bench a few yards away. “There, quick, that one,” he announces, actually pointing at it, and doesn't look at Harry when he grabs his wrist to drag him into an entirely unnecessary run.

* * *

It's almost a week of Harry sleeping on Nick's couch before he goes out for groceries and comes back practically vibrating with excitement over having met Harvey Milk, who he eagerly informs Nick is _really_ going to win this time, since they've reorganized how supervisor elections work. Harry's got a stack of leaflets in his hand about it that he's agreed to pass out and Nick can see the fire of an activist in him, clear as day. He's also obviously disappointed when Nick doesn't respond to that with matching enthusiasm, but Nick just—he can't, he's stayed away from all the political stuff since he left New York and he's not getting into it. He can't bring himself to say that to Harry, but apparently his “That's great,” wasn't exactly convincing, because Harry drops his bag and his leaflets by the door and comes and curls up next to Nick on the couch.

That's become normal for them, whether Harry thinks Nick seems irritated or not. At first Nick assumed Harry was trying to get into his pants, but he quickly figured out that no, it's just that Harry is apparently the sort of person who needs physical contact, as close to constantly as is possible. They've not so much as kissed since that first night, but Nick finds he spends most of his afternoons on his couch, watching TV and practically cuddling with Harry. The disgusting part is that he doesn't even mind that it hasn't gone further than that (not that that means he doesn't think about having sex with Harry approximately once every seven minutes, just like the stereotype, but it's still strange to find himself going off to work _happy_ after an afternoon doing nothing, maybe even more happy than he'd be if he'd spent it at the Ritch Street Health Club).

Today it's different, because Harry's snuggling up to him with an ulterior motive and it isn't sex, and Nick is grumpy about it. Not at Harry, because he knows he couldn't keep that up for five minutes if his life depended on it, but at himself, because Nick knows that he's going to stop sulking and cave the minute Harry asks him about it. He's gotten weak in his old age, Nick thinks mournfully. He doesn't look at Harry, but that doesn't stop Harry from resting his forehead against Nick's collarbone and asking, “Is there a reason you change the subject every time politics comes up?”

Nick's been asked this question before, and he knows perfectly well how to deflect it. He's laughed about having better things (and people, wink wink) to do than walk around passing out leaflets, he's joked about not being serious enough for that kind of thing, and he's hinted at the truth with a self-deprecating jab about not being cut out for crusading. Maybe it's the way Harry asked, or his proximity, or maybe it's just because it's Harry, but Nick doesn't throw his walls up and start talking around the question; like he knew he would, Nick sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and says in a quiet voice, “You know about Stonewall, right?” Harry pulls away enough to look up at him and nod, and Nick admits, “I was there.”

It's the first time he's told this story to anyone in the eight years since it happened, because he doesn't want to be tugged into that sort of thing again, and more importantly he doesn't want to be on the receiving end of anybody's pity. Nick's friends know he left New York in 1969 and he's let them draw their own conclusions from that, probably that Stonewall scared him into leaving, he's sure. They've all seen first-hand what a coward he is.

Harry says nothing about Nick's admission, just inhales sort of sharply and waits for him to continue, so Nick does. “I was nineteen—or no, eighteen still, hadn't had my birthday. I'd known I was gay forever, I'd had to deal with all the faggot stuff in school, you know what it's like, getting shoved around and your shit ruined and everybody calling you a girl, and it's worse 'cause you know they're all right.” From the way Harry's hand shakes against his back, Nick can tell he really does, and makes a mental note to ask about that later. “So I started going to clubs as soon as I could get myself a fake ID, around fourteen or fifteen, maybe, 'cause I just needed somewhere to be myself and not have to deal with that. I'd started going to Stonewall about a year before that night, 'cause you could actually dance there, not that I was any good but it was nice, still, y'know?”

Nick takes a measured breath, lets it out, and then continues. “There'd been raids before, I heard about them all the time, but somehow I'd been really lucky, had never been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that night I was. And normally in a raid they'd just check people's ID and take in people without and any trannies, 'cause that's all they could do, really, but this time people weren't giving them up, they were fighting back. So I did too, 'cause I thought, you know, fight the power! Stand up to the man!”

He hesitates again and glances down at Harry for the first time since he started telling the story. Harry's paying rapt attention, drinking in Nick's every word, and Nick's always liked being the center of attention, but he's never experienced it quite like this before. Another piece in the puzzle of weirdness that is Harry; apparently he's a great listener in addition to being considerate, quirky, and endlessly charming. Because he needed more positive attributes. Nick scratches the back of his neck and pulls his thoughts back to the story with a feeble chuckle at his idealistic, youthful former self. “So of course they arrested me. And with the riots blowing up the way they did, it was all over the news—maybe I'd normally have been able to call a friend to get me out of jail and my parents would've been none the wiser, but that's a bit tricky when you're on TV getting escorted out of a gay club and into a cop car. I wasn't even in there long, they let me go the next morning with a fine 'cause I wasn't one of the ones being really violent or destructive, all I'd done was resist arrest, but by the time I got out I'd lost my job and my parents made my sister come and tell me that as far as they were concerned I wasn't their son anymore.”

Nick's done his crying over this, it's long in the past and he's so much happier here than he'd ever been in New York, but Harry looks so, so sincerely sad for him. It isn't even pity, Nick knows pity when he sees it, but something much closer to sympathy. He reaches out to ruffle Harry's hair in a vague attempt at comfort (he's always been bad at it, but he tries, anyway). “So with nothing really left for me there, I thought, might as well go where the weather's better, and hopped a Greyhound to _go west young man_ and all that. Little did I know it'd be just as fucking cold here as there half the time and sometimes colder, but at least there's palm trees so I can pretend.”

Harry sounds kind of like he's suddenly caught a head cold when he says, “That was really brave of you.” Nick thinks Harry maybe heard a different story from the one he told, and shakes his head quickly. There's very little Nick hates more than disappointing people, and it won't do to have Harry thinking he's some kind of hero. “No, it was just—naive and stupid, really, brave would've been—I don't know. I was just being an idiot.”

But Harry ignores Nick's very logical disagreement and shifts around to look him in the eye. Nick misses Harry's warmth against his side, then immediately feels embarrassed for noticing something like that. “Doing something 'stupid' to stick up for what's right is exactly what being brave _means,_ Nick,” Harry insists. Nick opens his mouth to argue, though he doesn't know with what, but then Harry leans forward and kisses him, which immediately makes any argument fly directly out of Nick's head.

The kiss goes on for a few seconds before Harry pulls away, looking like he can't decide if he should apologize or do it again. Nick feels dazed, himself, but he makes a joke because that's the only defense mechanism he has. “Now _that_ was brave,” he teases, and Harry immediately flushes and goes with option one. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I just—”

Nick really does have to cut him off there, so he puts a finger to Harry's lips and says “What're you sorry for? When have I ever given you the impression that I _didn't_ want you to kiss me?”

If Harry were a normal person, he'd probably look a bit sheepish after a comment like that, but he doesn't, he just reaches up and moves Nick's finger, and then says, “The first night when you pushed me off you, maybe? That ring a bell?” His expression is a bit grumpy, but like most everything else Harry does, it just looks cute to Nick. He might actually have a problem. He should consider seeking professional help. Instead, he gives Harry his very most exasperated sigh. “Yeah, 'cause I didn't want you to think you had to be my rent boy or else you couldn't stay on my couch!”

“Well you didn't _say_ that!” Harry's _pouting_ now, and Nick finds this even more adorable, so he keeps prodding at him just to see if Harry can make a face that's so sweet that local wildlife bursts into song, or something. “I'm pretty sure I did, actually,” Nick drawls, expecting crossed arms or maybe for Harry to stomp his foot, that would be _darling_.

But then Harry's expression changes to this absolutely wicked smirk, and Nick's a bit taken aback. It's like every time he thinks he's got Harry figured out, Harry throws a curveball. “I'm pretty sure I can think of something better for us to be doing with our mouths than arguing, Nicholas,” Harry says, and somehow that low, slow, rough voice has gone from its normal level of 'somewhat seductive' all the way up to 'incredibly filthy' in seconds. Nick would have to be some kind of idiot not to take that obvious suggestion for another kiss. As he does, he's readjusting the Harry equations in his head to factor in his seductive side, how to push him to this point, what makes him—oh, _that's_ interesting, Nick's going to take his time figuring this part out. Doing everything with Harry twice to make sure Nick has correctly memorized his reaction is just good science, he thinks.

* * *

Harry doesn't end up meeting most of Nick's friends until a couple weeks later, the day of the Gay Freedom Day parade. Harry wants to march in it; Nick emphatically does not, but Harry won't do it without him, so his next suggestion is to go and watch from the street. Nick knows that will end with him getting pulled into it, though. He considers playing the “it's on the anniversary of Stonewall, it's a traumatic time for me” card, but he knows Harry will see through that in a heartbeat, so instead he suggests they go to Henry and David's, because they've got a great bay window that looks right over the parade route, and this way they can sit on a comfortable couch and have a few drinks but still see what's going on.

Nick is suspicious when Harry agrees so readily, but he doesn't put two and two together until the day of, when Harry takes way longer getting ready than normal, and Nick realizes it's because this is the first time Harry's met most of his friends. He's met Aimee and Annie at the bar, tagging along with Nick, and Pixie has run into the pair of them at Peaches' shop—and Collette, of course, that fateful first night—but Harry's only heard stories of Henry, David, Ian, Gillian, George, Matt, Fran, Laura-May, and Fiona, which means that this is sort of a big deal. It's possible that Nick has become a bit of a recluse over the last few weeks, too, because he hasn't seen any of those people since Harry stumbled into his life, which means he's flying blind here and they're all going to embarrass him.

It's too late to pull out now, of course, and even if he'd entertained the thought of suddenly coming down with a violent flu, it's put out of his mind when Harry comes out of the bathroom in one of Nick's shirts that is low enough to show off the love bite on his collarbone and a pair of cords that somehow make his relatively flat ass look fantastic. Nick reaches out and hooks a finger through Harry's belt loop. “Why did you dress like that?” A wrinkle appears between Harry's eyes, but before it can develop into a proper frown, Nick continues, “You make me want to wreck all the effort you put in by throwing those clothes back on my floor where they belong.”

Harry guffaws and shoves at Nick's shoulder, not nearly hard enough to push him away, but then quiets back down at once. “Well, I want your friends to like me,” Harry says to Nick's shoulder, his hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. Nick notices this, along with the way Harry's fidgeting much more than normal, his posture is considerably better, and realizes—he's _nervous_.

Which Nick finds adorable, but then, he's pretty much given up on trying to pretend he doesn't think Harry is among the loveliest people in his life. As sweet as Harry's nervousness is, Nick can't help but try to fix it, so he stands up to press a kiss to the corner of Harry's jaw. “As if you've met anyone in your life you can't charm. They're going to love you,” Nick promises. The weird part is how that's not even a lie; Nick is sure that they will, both because of all the ways he and Harry are alike and because he really does believe it's not possible to _not_ like Harry (not that he'd tried very hard, but still).

Harry seems placated, but he still stays close to Nick on the walk over, closer than he normally would. After he rings the doorbell, Nick slips his hand into Harry's back pocket and squeezes his ass to distract him a bit. It works; Harry jumps and looks up at him, and Nick leans in to whisper in his ear, “Just remember, anything anyone tells you about me is a dirty lie,” before withdrawing his hand. It's timed perfectly, he's just got his hands in front of him when Henry flings open the door and ignores Nick completely. “You must be _Harry_ ,” he says warmly, then leans forward to kiss Harry's cheek.

Nick probably should have warned Harry about that habit, which Henry had picked up while working in Paris and never completely dropped, but Harry seems to be doing fine. He offers up his most charming smile and says, “Henry, right? I saw a profile on you in a magazine last week, your designs are brilliant.” Henry shoots Nick a look, like he thinks Nick might have prepped Harry with flashcards or something, but Nick holds up his hands to protest his innocence. Harry hadn't even mentioned the magazine to Nick, but Nick isn't surprised—and he's sure that the compliment is sincere, because of course it is. Among the many facts he's amassed in the alarming large Harry-folder in his brain is that Harry never gives a compliment he doesn't mean. Henry apparently trusts the look on Nick's face, because he allows his ego to be boosted by Harry's words; Nick can see it in the way he squares his shoulders. “You're sweet. What are you doing with Nick?” he teases, and Harry grins, victorious.

“Yeah, Nick, your best friend, who you've ignored and left to stand on your doorstep for six hours while you're busy flirting? Helloooooo?” Nick jokes, taking over the situation and resting a hand in the small of Harry's back, a non-verbal assurance to Harry and not at all him marking his territory. Henry notices it though, he knows Nick too well not to, and his eyes flick to Nick's; his whole face says _so it's like that, is it_? Nick screws up his face in protest, but Henry redirects his gaze to Harry and says “Harry, do you hear that? Lot of noise on the street today, must be the parade gearing up—do you want to come inside?”

Harry laughs and nods, and Henry pretends to close the door on Nick when he follows Harry inside but lets Nick go quickly when his hands reach to mess up Henry's hair. Once they get into the living room, which is crowded with basically everyone Nick knows—he suspects Henry told everyone else to come half an hour before him, so that they could ambush him properly—it's too quiet for a second or two, like they were all listening in and are now caught. David breaks the silence by calling from the loveseat, “I was going to make a joke about Henry taking so long that I started to worry he'd run off with you two, but that's not as funny now I've seen how pretty your Harry is!” The room erupts in laughter, friendly, not cruel, and Harry ducks his head, flushing but smiling. Nick knows exactly how much of that bashful expression is a front, so he just rolls his eyes and says, “That's right, so keep your leering to yourself, thanks!” and drags Harry over to the only spot left, a space on the couch that's only going to fit them both if they practically cuddle in it. Not that that's a problem.

Though people keep sneaking curious glances at Harry and Nick, the conversation resumes after David's joke, enough for Nick to be able to offer whispered explanations to Harry on who everyone is, “You've met Pixie, but that's George and Gillian with her, they all three live together in sin, it's brilliant,” and “Over there's Matt, our token straight boy.” As soon as he's got through everyone, Laura-May, who's sitting next to Harry on the couch, pulls him into a discussion on the importance of gay representation in the media, and Ian, on Nick's other side, starts telling him a hilarious story about his latest hookup disaster.

When Ian goes off for another drink, Nick takes the opportunity to glance at Harry, who now has Fiona, Annie, and Fran in stitches over some ridiculous story about a cow. Nick really hadn't been worried, but it's still sort of amazing how easily Harry has fit into his circle. He doesn't even notice he's staring until Aimee hooks her chin over his shoulder and says “You're disgusting,” but in a voice that means 'adorable'.

Nick turns to look at her, surprised (when had she sat down, and how had he not noticed?), but she just laughs. “Never seen you mooning over a boy like this, Grimmy,” Aimee drawls, “though he does have a pretty spectacular mouth.” Nick rolls his eyes and elbows her, then shoots back, “Shut up, it's not—”

He really does need to stop talking before he thinks, because he's known Aimee from the moment he set foot in Frisco and she knows _exactly_ what he was going to say. “It's not _like that_?” she taunts, almost singsong. “You like him for _more_ than his mouth? Is Grimmy in _looooove_?”

Harry's story is funny enough, and Fran's laughter, at least, is loud enough that the odds are good that Harry can't hear Aimee's taunts, but Nick claps his hand over Aimee's mouth anyway. She licks it, of course, and he pulls it away and wipes it off on her knee, so she kicks him in the shin. “Are we in middle school, Aimes? Surely it's not that big of a deal that I actually like somebody, I'm not _that_ much of a misanthrope,” says Nick with all the superiority he can muster.

Aimee knows better, though, and she just raises her eyebrows at him. “Not a misanthrope, just the Bay Area's biggest commitment-phobe for the last eight years running.” Nick scoffs, like he's offended, but they both know it's true. He has a retaliation on the tip of his tongue, but Aimee's teasing expression softens just a bit. “He's a good one to break your streak on, though, Nick. He's lovely. Just don't fuck it up or you'll hate yourself for ruining him.”

The thing Nick hates most about Aimee is how she's never, ever wrong.

* * *

Nick's got the night off, a couple days later, and Harry's successfully talked him into taking him for a night on the town. Nick's been spouting wisdom all night from his seat comfortably on top of his high horse, little comments like “drink as much water as you can when we get home” and “if we get a bit drunk before we leave we'll save a few bucks and have a better time.” Harry took that last comment to heart, apparently, because when he discovers that Nick's cupboards are depressingly free of alcohol, he forces Nick bodily out of the apartment and down to the liquor store.

Harry is definitely, definitely not old enough to be in here, but it's Ian at the register so Nick knows there won't be a problem. He leans against the counter and chats with Ian aimlessly for a bit, then goes back to where Harry is browsing the aisles when a real customer comes up and expects Ian to actually do his job.

In the back of the store, Harry is picking up just about everything and then putting it down in different places. Nick wants to congratulate Harry on ruining Ian's evening, but then he realizes that the actual reason might be because Harry hasn't ever been in a liquor store before, and if that's the case Nick doesn't want to know. At the end of an aisle, Harry sees a display of half a dozen whistles and holds one up to Nick, looking a bit confused. “Why're there whistles?” Harry asks, turning it over in his hand before putting it back.

Nick frowns at Harry, then thinks that he probably just didn't see the little pink triangle in the window. “It's gay-owned, isn't it?” says Nick like it's obvious. Harry keeps running his hands over the liquor, considering an obnoxious-colored bottle of vodka for several seconds before putting it back. Nick is relieved; he's been down that particular road before and while the journey is fun, the destination that is the next morning's hangover is decidedly not. “So?” Harry finally answers, turning around to glance at the whistles again.

That gets Nick's alarm bells going, because Harry doesn't seem to be deliberately acting like a shit; it's like he doesn't know, and with a cool sense of dread, Nick realizes he might have missed this very important lesson on being gay in the Castro. “Didn't I tell you about whistles, H?” Nick clarifies, just to be certain that he is in fact an awful person.

Harry shakes his head. “What about them?” Nick's sure the look on his face is alarming, because Harry's confused frown deepens in response. Quickly, as if speed now will make up for all of the times he's let Harry leave the apartment alone in the dark, Nick grabs a whistle off the display and presses it into Harry's hands. “Shit. I'm sorry, I'm such a fucking—look.” Nick makes sure that he's got eye contact with Harry, and says maybe as seriously as he's ever said anything to him, “I really should've told you about this before and I can't believe I didn't. Now that I have done—these are like, our emergency warning call, if you will, 'cause we can't count on the police to help us. Don't ever leave the house without it. If you're ever in trouble, blow it and somebody'll come help you.” Harry nods slowly, then turns over the whistle in his hand, looking at it more carefully than he did before.

Nick turns away from Harry to scrub at his face, still cursing himself for not saying anything before, trying to keep himself from imagining what could've happened. Harry hands him a bottle of Jack, and says quite calmly, “And if I hear one, I should help too, right?”

And, well. Nick knows that that's the rule, that you can't expect help from other people if you won't help them too, but...He also saw what happened to Matt the night that he stepped up, and he doesn't want to see Harry in that state He can't just _lie_ , though; Harry would see right through him, and he's talking like he's already figured out the answer. He's a smart boy, he probably has; it is sort of obvious. Nick shrugs, even though Harry isn't looking at him, and settles for saying, “Yeah, if nobody else is.”

* * *

Nick had been meaning to ask Harry about his family, because he'd told Harry his sob story and expecting the same in return was really only fair, but the opportunity never came up (or, Nick never exactly sought it out, because Nick and serious conversations tended to go together about as well as oil and water). But one weekend afternoon, Nick wakes up to an empty bed and a quiet apartment, and when he goes into the living room, he finds Harry staring at a blank piece of paper like he's trying to burn a hole in it with his eyes.

He's not exactly sure what's going on here, but it seems like the right thing to do to ask, so he walks over to the couch, drops a light kiss on Harry's shoulder, and then rests his chin there. “Babe?” he asks, light, casual. Harry sighs, tips his head back, and then leans it to the right, pressing his face against Nick's. It's one of the weirder displays of affection Nick has participated in, but he likes it anyway.

After a few seconds, Harry makes a weird gesture with his hands that Nick interprets correctly as 'come here'. Five years ago he'd have jumped over the back of the couch, but now he walks around it like a proper adult. As soon as he sits down, Harry wraps himself around Nick's side, slothlike. It would be more comfortable if the pen in his hand wasn't digging into Nick's back.

Nick doesn't want to rush Harry, so he doesn't ask. He runs his hand up and down Harry's back, tracing patterns and letters idly, and after he draws “N+H” in a heart (which he would emphatically deny if Harry asked him), Harry pulls away and looks up at him. His eyes might be a bit watery around the edges, it's difficult to say, but his voice is steady when he says, “I'm trying to write a letter to my family.” Though Nick pauses for a moment, Harry doesn't seem inclined to continue without a response of some kind, so he nods, slowly. “Okay. How much do they know about where you are and why?”

Harry pulls away from Nick, but it doesn't feel like he's insulted, just like he's trying to pull himself together. He tucks the pen behind his ear, scrubs at his face, then sets his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “They know. I mean, unless they didn't—but yeah, then it'd be on the news or something, probably, so they know. I like, I kept seeing Anita Bryant on TV saying—you know, and I'd just got through a year at school of kids coming to sit at my lunch table just to harass me, calling me a faggot when I was terrible in gym class and then calling me a faggot when I cut class to avoid them, I mean—one of 'em scratched faggot onto my locker and I got in trouble 'cause it was my locker, like, that's what my school was like.”

Nick can't help it; he reaches out and puts a hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry leans into his touch, takes a deep breath, exhales, rubs at the corner of his eye with one finger, and then keeps talking. “And when—in Florida, when they won, and all the articles in the paper were basically like, 'Good, keep the faggots in California, don't let them think their sin is okay anywhere else,' I was like, well, better go to California then. But I couldn't—I mean, my mum and my sister, my dad left us when I was a kid and I couldn't do that to them? Couldn't, couldn't face telling them I was, you know. So I was a coward and I left them a note saying—explaining everything, I guess, about me and what I was and that I was going to California and not to look for me, that I'd write them when I got settled and if I didn't get any answer back I'd assume they didn't, I guess, want me anymore and I'd just let it alone.”

His voice had been steady when he started, but by the end it's shaking all over the place, so once Harry stops talking, Nick gathers him up in his arms immediately. He kisses the top of Harry's head and holds him tight; Nick's not sure when he became strong enough to be anybody's support system but he'd do anything to make Harry feel okay again. Harry starts talking again, and Nick means to pull away and give him space to do so, but Harry's hands are clutching the back of his shirt, so that's not happening.

“And I just, like. I'm settled, and now I've got to do it, but knowing once it's sent off I've got two weeks or whatever and then I have to stop hoping they won't hate me? Putting a time limit on it like that is just....” Harry trails off, and Nick's heart actually, physically hurts for him. He can imagine what it might be like to have a normal coming out experience—sure, he never had to deal with the agonizing waiting, anticipating their reaction, which was nice, but he has seen the worst possible option and come out the other side alive and swinging.

Nick knows nothing about Harry's mum and sister, so he can't offer any meaningful reassurance that they'll 'love him no matter what'. He does know Harry, though, well enough to know he'd like to hear the truth. “Knowing is better than torturing yourself, you know that. If it's like that, then you're still here, you've still got me—as well as everyone I know, since you've charmed them all ruthlessly. If that's how it shakes out, you'll handle it, H.”

When Harry takes a deep, shaking breath against Nick's collarbone and pulls away, nodding and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, Nick is surprised, because this is probably the first time he's successfully comforted anyone since...ever, probably. He turns the surprise into a smile, though, softer than his usual smirk, and says, “Want me to get you a cig or a cup of coffee while you tell your family all about how great I am?”

Harry chuckles, but then looks pensive for a second. “Nah, but would you mind, like...staying here while I write this? You don't need to do anything, I just. Then it's not like I'm telling them alone?” Without another word, Nick nods, and collapses along the length of the couch, sticking his feet in Harry's lap.

* * *

Considering the hour, Nick is sure that Harry won't be waiting up for him, and he factors that into the plan in his head. Nick will have to kill a few hours before the drug stores open, because he's sure there aren't any medical supplies in his apartment, but he can just use a rag and some water to clean the scrapes and then put some ice on his face. Then come six or seven, he can get some bandages to cover up the worst of it enough to convince Harry that he just fell at the bar and cut himself on broken glass on his way up. It sounds far-fetched even inside his head, but Nick thinks that if he acts ashamed and self-deprecating enough, he can pull it off.

Of course, that whole plan goes straight down the toilet when he gets home to see Harry dozing lightly on the couch, an opened letter clutched in his hand, wearing one of Nick's sweaters. Nick tries to sneak past him, but his depth perception isn't great right now, what with his eye in the state it's in and what happened to his glasses, and he bangs his shin into a table loud enough to wake people in Chinatown, probably. He lets himself swear aloud; at this point, the damage is done.

Nick doesn't let himself look at Harry, because if he keeps his face hidden then maybe Harry won't notice (he knows he's grasping at straws, but the alternative is explaining what happened to Harry, and that's not a choice Nick is capable of making). He stands there while Harry stretches and yawns, then sees him in his mind's eye turning to look at Nick over the top of the couch, and—there, there's the gasp Nick was waiting on. His shoulders slump.

“Jesus Christ, Nick, are you—what's happened?” Harry sounds almost panicked; he's off the couch and over to Nick faster than Nick would have expected for a newly awake boy who's uncoordinated at the best of times. Harry rests a hand on Nick's upper arm, but Nick keeps up his staring match with the ground. He doesn't need to look at Harry to know that he's cataloging Nick's injuries: a badly skinned knee, the left sleeve of his jacket half-ripped off, blood soaking the end of the other sleeve at a slightly alarming rate, the beginnings of an impressive bruise on his jaw, and a lovely shiner where his glasses belong. Harry can't see the bruises Nick knows are forming around his ribs, or the swollen knuckles of his right hand, but this is bad enough.

For all he's figured out about Harry, Nick's got no idea how he's going to react to this. He would have bet quite a lot of money, a few weeks ago, that he'd never find himself in a situation like this. Several seconds pass before Harry does anything at all but stand there next to Nick and breathe, and then suddenly he's tugging Nick to the bathroom, firmly but so, so gently. Nick says nothing, he just lets himself be led.

Then he stands there and lets Harry take care of him. Under the fluorescent bathroom light, it's difficult to miss the worried furrow of Harry's eyebrows or the way he's trying to gnaw through his bottom lip, but he's doing a solid job of putting his emotions aside for the moment. Harry's focused and his hands are steady as he gets Nick out of his ruined clothes, then uses a wet washcloth to clean up Nick's scrapes and cuts as best he can. If Nick were in a better frame of mind, he'd be wondering when they got Mercurochrome as he watches Harry bandage him up, but the shock of his evening has dulled his normally sharp, observant senses.

Once he's done, Harry gets Nick's softest pyjamas for him, then a kitchen towel full of ice for his black eye. He leads Nick by the uninjured hand into the living room again, gets him settled on the couch, and runs his thumb across Nick's knuckles. “Okay. Now tell me what happened.”

It isn't a question; Harry's voice is so full of worry and anger and sympathy that Nick feels rotten for putting him through it, even though it had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Well, no, it had seemed like a terrible idea at the time, but he'd made that choice anyway, and now here he is, bruised and battered, and Harry's upset on top of it. Nick can't—he doesn't have the energy to dodge Harry's question or cushion the blow with a joke or a silly story (what he'd really like to do is sleep, only he's too wired, and he's pretty sure there isn't a sleeping position that won't hurt given his current condition), so he just tells the couch, “Somebody blew his whistle.”

Nick's glad he's spent the last couple of months cataloging Harry's facial expressions, because this moment here is like a pop quiz of them. Nick catches confused, proud, furious, and upset out of the corner of his eye before Harry settles back into worried. “Was he—Did—Nick, you...”

In general, Harry is more likely to say too many words than too few, but Nick thinks he might be trying to keep himself from asking why Nick got involved, and it's making him reticent. It's a fair question, though—Nick's no hero, or at least he's never considered himself one, the idea's always been laughable, but tonight he got between four burly, drunk homophobes and their prey, and he doesn't know why himself.

Nick looks up at Harry, prepared to tell him it was an impulse and he must have been imagining that he was much more buff than he actually is or something, but then he meets Harry's eyes for the first time since he got into the apartment tonight, and. Well. Nick wants to reach down into his own chest and throttle the little bit of romantic idealism that has apparently managed to outlive his years of trying to kill his innocence with alcohol, sex, and cynicism, because he knows _exactly_ why he did what he did tonight, and it's completely idiotic.

“It's what you would have done,” Nick says simply, smiling because he can't not, even though that makes his face hurt in three different places. Harry's expression is all shock now. Whatever he had been expecting Nick to say, it wasn't that; Harry's mouth is open slightly and all he says is, “ _Nick_.”

That's enough, though. Nick understands. He's given the better part of the last few months to figuring Harry out, knows now what Harry uses to lure people in (the pout, most of the innocence) and what's just Harry being Harry (his directionless method of storytelling, most of his quirks). The thing about Harry that Nick's found himself the most interested in is his genuine desire to help other people, because Nick had pretty much given up hope on meeting someone like that. Sure, there's people like Gandhi or Mother Teresa or whatever, but in Nick's experience, most people who help other people are doing it to benefit themselves in some roundabout way. Harry, though, gives of himself without expecting anything in return, and is pleased and surprised when he gets it anyway. That's not to say that he's perfect; he's cheeky and obnoxious, especially in the morning, he can be incredibly manipulative when he needs to be to get his way, he hogs the covers and demands to be cuddled all the time and he's the most impossible flirt Nick's ever met—but it all balances out into somebody who's just... _good_.

Whenever Nick's met people less selfish than himself in the past, either he's found them to be sanctimonious assholes, or they've made him feel uncomfortable and guilty in his own inferiority. Harry, on the other hand, makes Nick want to do better, to be somebody who deserves to have Harry in his bed and in his life. He thinks that might just start with not minding so much that his glasses are broken in an alleyway somewhere and he hurts _everywhere_ because it means that maybe somebody made it home tonight who otherwise might not have. Before Harry stumbled into his life, Nick would have found it all too easy to feign deafness to the whistle's call, do a few shots before bed to erase any lingering guilt, and wake up in the morning with a dry mouth and a clear conscience.

Now, it seems he's misplaced that immature, selfish part of himself. He couldn't have looked the other way tonight if he'd wanted to. In return, he gets Harry on his couch, holding his hand like it's a lifeline and looking at him like he's completely overwhelmed. Nick sets the towel full of slowly melting ice down on the coffee table, then leans over to kiss Harry.

As far as he's concerned, it's a pretty fair trade-off.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I can't let go of this verse, so I already have a coda in the works for early 1980s. If anyone would be interested in a timestamp or something else about this verse (headcanons? detail on side characters? anything really) feel free to send me a message on [tumblr](http://blamefincham.tumblr.com) and I'll do my best!


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